Family conversations
by Qelinor
Summary: A series of drabbles for Patalliro! anime. Bits of routine life for Bancoran and Maraich, with occasional cameo of Patalliro and others. As if life can be routine for a MI6 agent and a former assassin...
1. Chapter 1

"Ba-an?"

"What?" Jack B. Bancoran winced. Maraich had just snatched his cigar and the ashtray from under his nose, shook butts blatantly into the kitchen trash bin, washed the and put it to a dish dryer. And without a cigar, the MI6 major could not be cool and distant enough to endure his lover's 'talk'.

"Will you ever quit smoking?" the red-haired young man snarled. "It's not good for health. You're an adult, you know it perfectly, so why do you continue to kill ten packs every day till they kill you? And not just cigarettes but cigars! It costs a fortune, I looked up the price in your card slips! In the years I know you, you've spent worth of a space shuttle on that!.. Cut it out, immediately! Don't light another one when I'm talking to you about quitting!"

His voice rose to dangerous pitch, and Bancoran hurried to squash the offending item on the table and move it out of his lover's sight. For the same reason he swallowed a remark about not needing a space shuttle. One tone higher, and Maraich would attack him with strength amazing for his slender stature. Even assassin Maraich didn't fight the MI6 agent so ferociously as an irritated 'housewife' Maraich.

"We earn more than enough and don't feel any poorer even with my consumption habits. And I don't tap on your income-"

"You tap on OUR joint, family income! Also, I heard on TV that the Government starts a new trick to lessen smoking… how was it called… that employers will have to cut bonuses of smoking personnel, or something like that."

"Okay, I'll take ext-" Bancoran swallowed words 'extra work' as it would have definitely drive Maraich over the edge. "Eddie Lawrence graduates this year so I won't have to pay his tuition, and our financial position will not be shaken."

"And health?" Maraich was evidently not intending to give up. He plopped onto Bancoran's lap to get a better hold of the subject.

"Why health? Men of Bancoran's family chainsmoked since Columbus brought tobacco from America, and no one died of lung cancer, or asthma, or the like."

"Yeah and no one lived even to 50 because they got stabbed or shot or poisoned all the time. You told me."

Bancoran sighed. Sometimes he wished his lover talked just a bit less.

"You're just petty. Smoking does not affect our kin."

"YOUR kin. I'm not sure about mine."

"But you don't smoke."

"So what?" Maraich waved index finger with most expert air. "A British scientist said in a TV show that people who stay around smokers become passive smokers too, and still worse, they breathe with the worsest parts of fumes... formail.. de…hide.. or something like that. Anyway, I don't want to breathe with some shit I can't pronounce! But I get too much of it around you."

Bancoran blinked.

"I think you watch too much TV- ouch!"

That was definitely a mistake – Maraich was too close to his unguarded belly, and his elbow was too hard and sharp.

"You don't care about me!" Maraich whined while Bancoran tried to catch breath.

"Okay, okay…" he coughed up at last. "I'll try not to smoke in your presence. But I can light a cigar automatically, so I permit you to stop me."

The young man smiled and kissed Bancoran on the nose. It was a perfect plan, after all! If Bancoran is left without cigars from evening till morning he'd grow a normal appetite not dulled by smoke, and eat breakfast made by Maraich. At last.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ba-an?"

"What?" The MI6 agent was fiddling with a plastic straw and suppressing an urge to hug Maraich, wrap the scarf around him and feed him some cheesecake with a spoon. For some unknown reason, this red-haired whirl of whims and frills was getting quiet and insecure when the two men were dining out, and the blue eyes were taking on an irresistibly cute pleading expression.

"Do you love me?"

Fortunately, Bancoran was not drinking his cocktail at that moment, for he'd most probably choke to death. The straw in his hand folded in two.

"Maraich, how on earth did you come to that question? I've told you so many times…"

"Yes, you did", the boy cuddled his cup of tea and looked around as if trying to catch a missing word. "Don't mind, really. Just silly me imagining things. Can't even peg it down properly."

"Try please. Spill it out. You will feel better, I'm sure." The major performed his trademark glance at one tenth of output power, just enough to encourage his lover without driving his mind out to space. The former killer did blush a little bit and continued his musings.

"You see, I call you 'Ban', I've given you a nickname that only I can use. To tell that you're very special to me. I want to be special for you too, to be apart all those for whom you're Mr. Bancoran. And you never call me other than 'Maraich', just as in ID. Just like all others. Damn, even Patalliro calls me names, though in the bad sense! But I understand immediately that it's him talking to me and not anyone else…"

The major breathed out, dropped the straw and chuckled mildly closing his hands over Maraich's.

"Silly you, indeed. Did it ever occur to you that I like your name as it is? It's rare, it's beautiful as you, and very romantic. In fact," he looked a bit shy suddenly, and the young man perked his ears. "I envy you a bit for having such an exquisite name. My parents left me with just 'Jack' in the birth certificate. Like a dog's name. Not even James. And don't even mention the second name! Even Americans would consider it too pretentious. Besides," – he disentangled the boy's hand from a cup and brought up to his lips, "I think it is important not only what to say, but how to say. Maraich."

It came out so deep and rich, so velvety, so promising… The said boy shuddered not able to look aside, drowning in those dark eyes with a glint of magic. Such a pity they are in a café, so far from their bedroom…

"Ba-an?" Now he looked and sounded much happier as before, if a bit sly.

"What else?"

"May I call you… sometimes… once a week or so…"

"What?"

"Bunny."

This time Bancoran did choke. With air.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ba-an?"

"What?" Bancoran could almost see his lover dangling leg and fiddling with phone cord in the agent's apartment. The workday was about to end in a matter of minutes, and he was mentally on the way home to that pretty sight (and home stock of whiskey).

"Are you late today again?" Maraich purred at the other end of line.

"Strangely, no. I'll be on time." Bancoran expected some excitement at the fact, but…

"Will you do some shopping then in your procurement office?"

"Er… what?" The agent felt frustrated, somehow.

"Just a sec, I'll take the list and say what. Yeah, a box of tommy gun cartridges, a couple of machine gun cartridges, just to be on the safe side, and gun grease. It's still a third of a bottle but still you may as well restock it. Oh, and most important! Get some new cartridges for gas masks. I know you can bring home only written-off old ammunition, but those masks you've got the last time are dated world war one!"

"That is quite a list." Bancoran sighed, but then sprung to his feet and squeezed the receiver. "Are you okay, Maraich?!"

"Sure, don't worry, I'm fine, unlike all others." There was clearly a yawn. "First, some Columbian drug dealers tried to undermine your apartment. You should have seen their faces when they saw me! They must have most lousy reconis… secret service if they didn't expected to come across me – the rest of the world knows that I spend most of time at your place. Then, a couple of thugs from IDS tried to kill me. Just as I've started to thing they gave up on the idea. And then yet another boy came and wanted to see you and stay with you till death do you part."

The red-head paused. Long enough to make Bancoran VERY nervous.

"And?.." the agent was the first to give way.

"Oh, I've forgot to say you should buy more insect powder, our pack is over."

"M-maraich, you… didn't you… please tell you didn't…"

"What? I wanted to make him some tea, and there it was – a cockroach in the cupboard! I wanted to sink through the floor - in front of him, such a disgrace. He noticed it, too, and reprimanded me, mind you! Like, he'd be a better housewife for you! Like hell! I was more skillful at throwing knives and combat arts than he—"

"And?" – Bancoran forgot to breathe. "You didn't?.."

"I did. I did persuade him to forget you and leave." His voice was seething with malicious joy.

Certainly he was not going to tell in detail what kind of persuasion it was. He did learn some special tricks from Bancoran. Of course the red-head was not as overpowering as the secret agent, but at least Bancoran's victims stopped being so focused on him and realized there were other men in the world, too. But Bancoran should not know that. Men's egos are so damn fragile.


	4. Chapter 4

[Author's note: two drabbles turned out too short so they are posted in one chapter for convenience.]

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 agent Bancoran resurfaced from cozy after-lunch dozing. On a weekend, after good wine and decent lasagna he loved everything and everybody – government, department chief, armchair, mellow spring sun, a sparrow chirping at the balcony, a newspaper lying lax on his lap. And of course, Maraich, with all his looks, poses, gestures, talks… yes, even talks.

"You said you didn't like old geezers, right?" The red-head was standing in the kitchen doorway behind his lover, wiping a plate with a towel.

"Eh? Well… Sure. Why do you ask?" Bancoran dove into a newspaper to hide his confusion. Did the former assassin hint at Sanders? Sure, the department chief was making some lukewarm attempts of approaching his best agent, but Bancoran did not find it very bothersome, especially in comparison with regular brain-squashing from Patalliro.

"Once you'll have to."

"Why?" Intrigued major peeped from behind the newspaper.

"Because one day I'll be another old wreck too. Of course you'll still be ten years older than me, but will you love me then?"

"Just nine years older, mind you!" Bancoran sulked, but that was clearly not what the young man wanted to hear, right? "Silly you, I love everything you are, and even the wreck you'll be. Besides," he yawned, "Field agents don't live that long usually. Most probably you will have your own teeth and hair when you have to sweep leaves from my grave."

A porcelain-breaking clatter came from the kitchen, and instantly the agent was smothered by two slim arms and a mop of red curls.

"Don't! Even! Say that!" Fervent sobs heated his ear. "You're the best, you'll never die so silly! Promise me you won't!"

But Bancoran was not able to give such a promise – he could hardly breathe lest talk, and suspected he'd meet the ancestors right now.

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 agent Bancoran pretended he was scratching his ankle and not fetching a bottle of wine from under the table. Not that Maraich was objecting, but Bancoran had already found himself agreeing to a part-time smoking ban (so to say) and did not want to risk another his bad habit and hobby.

False alarm. The red-head did not turn from the sizzling bacon on a stove.

"Once you said I may kill Patalliro. Is it still true?"

"Why do you ask it now? As far as I know, he didn't bother us two weeks already which is an absolute record till now."

"So what? It does not mean he won't show up tomorrow. Every time I talk to him a million of my nerve cells dies. And I see you feel the same. I just want us to live happily ever after safe, sane and sound."

Bancoran sighed. It was not easy to argue with Maraich during breakfast when he had a knife in one hand and a steaming pan in the other. And it was extremely difficult to argue with a beautiful young man dressed in just an apron.

"Well, you are exaggerating a bit. Try to take him easy, he is just a kid."

"A kid, shoot!" Maraich was nearly steaming harder than the bacon on his pan. "He's almost 14, a blotchy lard-ass with fork-tongue and foul mind of an oversated old pervert!"

"You're so lyrical today, my dear. I would not call him fat, he's just short and… thickset. And many teenagers have skin problems, it's not necessarily a sign of evil–"

"HE-IS-EVIL!"

"Calm down, Maraich. Just don't feed the animal. Consider it a psychological endurance training. I do. And, for example, I notice I do not feel irritated with grammar mistakes of typists in our secretarial department, or by slow waiters, or–"

"Why do you object, I wonder." Now the red-head squinted suspiciously. "You're just as sick of him as I am, ain't you? Then, just overlook some my adventure. It won't raise any political ruckus, if you're afraid of an international scandal. Malynera king has enough enemies, and I can feign an attack of the Diamond Syndicate or ETs, and shift suspicions from the UK."

Bancoran sighed.

"Right you are. But he did one really good thing, which justifies his existence to me."

Maraich snorted and slammed the pan on a table-mat.

"You know… If not for him, I would have never met you."

"Oh."

This time the pretty killer had nothing to say.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 major Bancoran tried to sound concerned, for Maraich's voice seemed very sad. However, it was hard to worry after a lunch of two bottles of Bordeaux and a sight of pretty waiters.

"I don't feel well-choo! Could not even get to buy some medicine or honey, or food. Can you get ask the chief to leave work earlier and drop in to me and save me from hunger and chills?"

Sometimes, talking with Maraich would give Bancoran headache. Not so sudden and strong as by communication with Patalliro, but still…

"Don't be silly. You're too old to believe in healing power of kisses. If you feel that bad you should call an ambulance and not me. If you are exaggerating you'll be fine tomorrow after some rest."

The man did his best to hide irritation but failed, definitely.

"Got it." Against all expectations, the voice on the other end was neither furious nor crying. Just tired. "I'm just asking too much. You're good at saving world and taking lives, not in domestic trifles like showing a bit of care and support. I'm sorry."

Long beeps in the receiver.

Bancoran stared at the phone for a minute. A burst of heat was spreading in his head, as when one misses a step on a stair. He felt like he let something slip from his hands and heard it breaking.

After a moment of hesitation, he pressed the phone cradle and dialed extension number of the department chief.

"Mr. Sanders? It's Bancoran. Can I leave work earlier? I… I don't feel well. Like, ate something stale... Sure, I will. Thank you."

The young man fell back into the bed. Aside from running nose and headache, he felt great. 'Break a template' thing did work. His Bancoran will definitely come, and will get a portion of flu germs that Maraich was gathering the day before so diligently on a walk through East End subways, markets and public hospitals. There must be a strain which worked even on the toughest secret agent. And Ban would spend at least a week in bed, and Maraich would take all proper care of him. Kisses included.

The pillow seemed a bit too hard. The red-head drew a book from under it and stuffed it under the mattress. Bancoran should not see the title, for sure. "1001 ways of making people do what you want them to but they don't want to but will not even notice", by Patalliro VIII. Once in a while, that brat was actually useful.


	6. Chapter 6

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 major Bancoran was flipping through a morning newspaper while munching a muffin. He did his best to abstain from smoking at home, but his hand felt empty, and Maraich's bakery fitted in neatly.

"What day is it today?"

"Wednesday, so what?"

"You ask me what?! And what about the date?"

"February 14th, so what?"

"'So what?!" Maraich shouted throwing a knife precisely into the back of Bancoran's chair. "It's a holiday for all couples, for romance and love, you blockhead!"

And he threw a heart-shaped chocolate from another hand precisely into Bancoran's nape. But the man stayed as cool as cucumber.

"My dear, it's just one more prop for capitalists to boost sales of chocolate and jewelry."

"But it did not bother you all previous years."

"Well, people revise their viewpoints often as they grow older. For me, such holiday is the date of our meeting, not some mythical anniversary of a mythical character. Also it would be too strange for us, of all couples, to relate our feelings with a saint from the religion promising hellfire for the likes of us."

Maraich dropped another knife in surprise, not cutting his toe by mere chance.

"Ban? Are you alright? You talk like a commie." In a matter of a second his mood dove into deep concern.

"Not communist, just a socialist." The major hmphed.

"As you say. Personally, I don't care if you are re-recruited or just work-stressed. But you can have problems if you say that shit at your office."

"Don't worry, I serve my country only, and will work for it only, but damn, what's wrong with a wish to get your labors paid?!"

"And they ain't?" Maraich sat gingerly on a chair beside Bancoran and patted him on the shoulder.

"That bastard Sanders delayed the subsistence by two days till tomorrow, and agrees to sign checks only after we complete an operation today and submit reports. Not the easiest operation. I suspect we won't cope today. That swivel-chair warrior haven't been in the field for ages and forgot how it feels to stay in ambush for hours under rain among construction debris. So–" he tensed, just in case. "I'm not sure I'll be coming today. Sorry."

He stood up.

"Oh." Maraich drooped, then smiled forcedly. "I'll be waiting, then. Good luck."

The door closed behind the agent, and the red-head clenched his hands on the table. Table top would have crumbled were it not made of air-craft-grade alloy – too many its wooden predecessors suffered terrible death during Maraich's tantrums. So, he only succeeded in breaking a nail. This did not improve his mood, but he knew better than to kick the offending furniture. To sate an impulse to squash something, he picked up the chocolate thrown into Bancoran before, and stopped. The red bit of foil and candy in his hand looked so fragile, so lost.

The young man cuddled it in both hands and carried back to the fridge.

"I will make you a present, Ban", he whispered tenderly and pulled out a drawer with knifes.

A cleaning man was scrubbing floor outside of Field Ops office in the building of the Secret Intelligence Service. When another secretary disappeared behind the corner, the cleaner looked around quickly, put the bucket quietly right to the office door and peeped into the keyhole. The field of view was not too wide but it covered a large part of table – with flowers in a vase, a bottle of cognac, candles, glasses and such like. The chief was not seen but heard, most probably by the phone.

"Yes. Fine… Fine, Bancoran, go on… Report to the office when you are over." Receiver clanked down in place, but chief Sanders continued talking, this time quietly and in altogether another cooing manner. "Oh, dear Bancoran, you'll come, and we'll have a wonderful Valentine evening. I'm sure he will appreciate an envelope with extra bonus and won't be as cold as usual. Ho, it's so cool to be a boss."

The cleaner swayed back from the door. His face expression was not seen behind a gauze respirator but the eyes squinted in fury. Then he shove a hand into the overall's pocket, rushed back to the door with a hiss… and tripped over his own bucket. But did not it stand some inches farther a second before? No one could tell, as both bucket and cleaner scattered all over the floor with mighty rattle. The door opened, and Sanders peeped out just to see a technician dragging a cleaner, bucket and mop away and muttering apologies. The department chief shrugged and returned to daydreaming.

Meanwhile the technician shove the cleaner into utility room, released submission hold and tore off cleaner's respirator and cap. Fiery curls flowed around a delicate, model-like face distorted with pain and anger.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Maraich (who else?) hissed and tried to kick the intruder but missed the target and received a painful stab with the mop handle.

"What are _you_ doing, I should ask!" the other retorted in a muffed voice and pulled his own cap and dim glasses off.

"Black Onions", the former killer spat. "I should have known. You're everywhere like cockroaches. Why do you interfere, I wonder. It's my private matter, it has nothing to do with Malynera and its clown of a king."

"Patalliro VIII ordered us to keep an eye on you and major Bancoran," the Malynerian agent explained patiently as to a small child. "And you're clearly making a stupid thing. Mister Bancoran would hardly approve it if you attack his senior officer".

"Sheesh. How would he know it's me? I planned a perfect Valentine gift. I get rid of that bald bastard, Ban gets rid of a nuisance, extra hours, payment delays – and I'm sure he'll be promoted as the next department chief. He's the best agent, you know. "

"Quite logical", the Kurotamanegi wiped glasses with his wig still eyeing Maraich warily. "First question. I saw you were taking your knife, and there are not many skillful knife users around, so you'll be the first suspect."

"Oh, yes," the past-and-future killer winced. "I… I kinda flew off the handle. Seeing that old crock leeching after MY Ban! You should understand me! I didn't want to. My original plan was to push him some coffee with purgative and Lidocaine, Wait for him in the washroom and hang him on his braces while the drug freezes his voice. Then I return to his room, leave a ditching message and make it look like a love-sick suicide. Perfect, ain't it?"

The Black Onion agent scratched his chin and looked at Maraich with appreciation.

"Another question, then." He smirked nonetheless. "Not even a question, rather a comment. You know what I'm doing here. Gathering information. So I've come to know the principles of assigning a chief of Field Ops. And believe me, it's not skill, experience or intellect. It's dispensability–"

"Dis– what?"

"Uselessness." The Kurotamanegi sighed. "It's too difficult to train a good field agent to waste him on administrative duties, so it's non-achievers who become chiefs. In other words, Bancoran will be an agent forever, till he retires on age or injury, or dies."

"Uh-oh," Maraich let both hands stuck in his hair and plopped on the floor preparing to cry.

"Damn what should I do then? I agree to share Ban with his work, but not with his chief! Even if the post goes to another loafer I must get rid of this very bastard!"

The Black Onion coughed.

"Still it would not guarantee that the next boss will not approach Mr. Bancoran. May I make some corrections to your plan to leave Mr. Sanders alive, deeply hurt and not willing to see Mr. Bancoran so often?" he said tentatively.

The killer raised an eyebrow and stopped sobbing.

"Let's leave the first part of your plan intact," his would-be accomplice continued with a smug air. "I mean, the coffee with all admixtures. But when Mr. Sanders goes to the lavatory I lock him there, and you wait for Mr. Bancoran in the office in a very romantic atmosphere. Mr. Sanders won't be able to call for help, and if he bangs on the door I explain the passers-by that it is repair works. You spend a good evening, or take the stock home, and leave that message you've made. Just change the addressor to 'Bancoran'. And - profit!"

"Change their dresser? What do you mean?" Maraich snarled.

"No, change the name of the one who signed the letter," the Kurotamanegi sighed.

"What's the hell with using weird words when there are clear and simple ones," Maraich went on grumbling. He could not acknowledge so quickly that this cockroach made a better plan so easily, but it was for Ban's sake, right? He stood up and offered hand to the Black Onion guy.


	7. Chapter 7

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 major Bancoran was leaving the table in haste. It was taking longer to eat a bacon with eggs and a cup of coffee with muffins than to drain down a bottle of wine, so now all he felt out of time most of mornings. And his dearest Maraich had a knack to choose wrong moments for small talk. What was it this time?

"You coat is kinda too old, see a stain on the back didn't come off after the last laundering, and the gun grease remained on linen under arm. And it's worn out at the sleeves and seams. It just will not survive another washing!"

"Hmm." Bancoran tried to veer the red-haired talking obstacle in front of coat rack but failed.

"Don't change topic! You need a new coat."

"Alright, I will think about it on the next payday."

"No, you'll forget as usually. Let's do it this way. I throw the coat now, you feel chilly on your way to the office, draw some cash from your account in the lunch recess, and return with a new coat in the evening, okay?"

Bancoran sighed. He'd try to pull the item in question out and 'persuade' Maraich out of this folly, but he might be late then.

"Fine, but I can throw it out myself, you need not get out on such a chilly day. If you do not trust me you can watch me from the bedroom window, the dump is seen from there."

"No!" Maraich grabbed the coat and jumped away from the door like some giant squirrel with some giant nut.

The major sighed once more, stepped outside of the apartment and said just before shutting the door, "You could just ask me to give it to you".

Footsteps fading away, elevator door clack, silence.

Still holding the coat, Maraich sat slowly on a coach. Somehow, he felt guilty, as a kitten shoved into its own puddle. He could not tell how long he stayed like that before an idea evolved from bits of emotions and reasoning.

Laying down the coat carefully he rushed to the bedroom, fished for a book under mattress, carried the hideous literary work with two fingers, as if it were a toad, to the door and dropped there – not to forget to leave it at the dump on the way to Bancoran's office. The front cover fell down, and one would hardly manage to read the long title while the book was flying. "1001 ways of making people do what you want them to but they don't want to but will not even notice", by Patalliro VIII.

Bancoran squeezed his gun and rolled under a car. Two cars more, and he'll be at his own vehicle. Today, he had left the office after work and headed to the parking lot as usually. But a sight of ominous figure in hat and trench coat made him leap behind an entrance post, snatch out his gun and perform 'stealth approach'. As a nuisance to drug dealers, he came across such visitors quite often.

One car closer… Enough. Spring up, prop himself on the bonnet, feet flying first into the intruder's back, landing on the stranger, twisting an arm.

Grey felt hat rolled away, and tight red curls glistened under street lights.

Bancoran stopped in his track and sat straight, though still on Maraich.

"Truly my Ban," the young man hissed. "Now please let me breathe, I still have something to tell to you".

The agent scuttled down, and both men stood up at last. The killer picked up his hat, shook it off and turned back to his lover.

"You don't like it?"

Bancoran coughed.

"No, no, how can I? You are as neat as ever. It was merely so… so unexpected." Now, at closer distance, he could recognize his own formerly-beige coat, an object of the morning scene. And his own old black tie and vest thrown away by Maraich long ago. And a purple shirt with black stripes.

"And whose hat did you get?" was all he could say at the moment. "I don't remember wearing one".

"It's new," the red-head snorted. "I thought a hat would cut it fine with the suit".

"And where's your hair?" Bancoran hurried to ask before Maraich would sulk.

"Stuffed under coat, what did you think? Like hell I'll ever cut it!"

"And what did you want to tell me?" The major opened the car, and at last they were inside, away from chilly November wind.

"Uh," Maraich locked his fingers and stretched. "About this morning." The pause was broken only by ignition turned on, and a reassuring nod.

"I thought a lot. Really, why do I use all this complex scheming, when I can just say 'please'. Maybe the spy and mafia business wears off every day. And Patalliro, sure! It's his style. Damn him ever after!"

Street lights were flashing by, wet asphalt whispered under the tires, and Maraich continued.

"Well, first. It's like having a tiny bit of you when you're on missions in other countries. You know, a bit of your smell, of your touch. Don't worry," he giggled seeing a blank look in the front mirror. "I'm not a fetishist. At least, not to _that_ degree. Of course I would be easier to have a child–"

Bancoran nearly hit a light post.

"Maraich, I–"

"I know, I know, you don't want to. I don't mind. At least, your shirt does not keep mom awake 24 hours non-stop. And second," he drew an extra deep breath. "Sometimes… I want to feel myself more like a man. Like you. Cool and independent, and stuff. Especially when you're far. But I was afraid you won't like that part of me. Don't worry, for you I always want to be the most beautiful and sexy and, how to say… the most desirable prey. But only today I wanted to invite _you_ on a date to a cafe. And look, you've ruined both our suits."

Indeed, the ground was not sterile after rain, and the both men looked like they were collecting their wardrobe at a dump site.

Bancoran stopped the car at a pavement, turned to the red-head and hugged him.

"My silly beautiful Maraich. You are irresistible in any images. I will accept everything you are, believe me. Oh, I've got an idea."

He looked around, started the car on again and turned back over double white line.

"I know a great place. It's very simple and low-class, so our clothes would pass face control. I used to drop there when I was younger and wanted desperately to have a sip of rum after a dirty mission but had no time or clothes to change into clean ones. I still want to go now and then, but you look too… I'm sorry, too queer for that kind of pubs to enjoy it in peace. And today we are perfect for it."

Frankly speaking, the MI6 agent was also hoping that Maraich would pass out quickly and wouldn't get to possible implications of "more like a man" and "invite _you_"."


	8. Chapter 8-1

"Baaaan! Help! Save me!"

"Wha.. What are you doing here, Patalliro?" MI6 agent Bancoran dropped a cigar into papers on his writing desk and now was fishing it out before it destroyed his monthly report.

"Don't you see, I'm running around!"

Indeed, the young king of Malynera was scurrying in circles all over the office in his trademark cockroach style. Bancoran tried to trip him up but the blonde stomped right on his foot. Must be 150 pounds, the agent thought crouching with pain. Patalliro did grow up and in other directions as well.

"Save me, Ban! Me and our kingdom!"

"_Your_ kingdom. I have my own country to serve."

At last the agent sacrificed his cup of coffee and poured it on the frantic boy. Running stopped. Patalliro shook himself like a dog, spraying the whole room with brown dots, licked one drop from his nose and winced.

"Cheep lousy drink. You serve the whole country? On a large plate, with siding and sauce?.. No, don't pull the trigger, you must hear my sad story first! US President said on TV that democracy is under threat in Malynera, and two American aircraft carrier ships are standing within the sight of my castle! It does not look good! They don't fit into a landscape, and I cannot finish my genius painting of Malyneran sunset! I'd like to help that mysterious democracy but I don't know what it is, or where it is in my island. Is it some kind of animal? A mole maybe? I was not kind to moles recently, hunya."

"No, there is no democracy in Malynera, and never was." Bancoran still held his gun in hand, its point wavering loosely around the room – just to keep the guest concentrated.

"So what the hell they want?" Patalliro whined wiping his face with an arm in a cat-like manner.

"In political language, this situation means that either your country explored some oil reserves, or that you know something negative about the US government. Did you start oil production recently, or a Kurotamanegi in CIA got caught and spilled?"

Patalliro switched into computer mode, beeped and rustled for a minute or so.

"No. Currently we have only diamond deposits. No. Black Onions are elite of elite and would not betray me even under drugs. Summary. Reason unknown."

For some blissful quiet seconds the king of Malynera stared into space, then turned to Bancoran again.

"You should try a coffee from my new coffee machine. The powder is not just boiled but undergoes a nuclear smashing, so that every single particle of coffee is active in all senses!"

The agent groaned and rubbed his temple with one hand. Hello headache!

"No thanks. Spies from country A supply us with radioactive tea admixtures already. As for your issue… If there are air carriers already I can only recommend you to abdicate, transfer all your budget to some Swiss bank and emigrate. They'd drop some bombs and missiles, assign a 'nationally elected' president, and–"

"Like hell I will!"

"Then they would nuke the island until your citizens hand you out on a silver platter."

"But you will protect me right?"

"Not necessarily. Great Britain supports all policies of the US. I may be even assigned to capture or kill you." Only raging headache did not let Bancoran smile at the thought.

"How can you say it so calmly?! Please tell me you're joking! You can't do that to a friend, right?"

"A friend? Haven't heard of. Great Britain has no permanent enemies or permanent friends, she has only permanent interests."

"That's how it is? Oo-kaay…" Patalliro's brow furrowed, evil giggle rose from the depths of his organism.

"Then… I'll take British citizenship, move to London and get a position in MI6! Translator, or anything. And _we'll_ live happily ever after"

One of the best MI6 agents fell back with his chair and fired the gun unintentionally. Neither noise nor fall alleviated his headache, but he had to find a solution now. Slowly he pulled himself up along a curtain.

"First of all, I am a _British_ agent, not American, so don't expect me to know true US reasons."

The not-so-little brat stayed unimpressed.

"But you said once that you had acquaintances in the CIA. Can you ask them what is going on?"

If glances could kill Patalliro would be murdered ferociously ten times a day. But the glance of 'pretty-boy killer' had effect only on pretty boys, so nothing threatened the king of Malynera. Bancoran staggered to the phone and dialed a long international number.

"Yo Hewitt! It's Bancoran. Long time no hear. How are you? …oh great… oh no… by the way, what is the mess around Malynera about? Guess when your army gets fucked up again we'll have to join you … oh Jesus… just that. Sorry, boss calls me out. Bye."

"Wow. I want to take a lesson of impromptu lies from you", Patalliro purred. "What did he said?"

"Well, his department was not related to the Malynera case so he says he knows only the version for general CIA internal circulation. And according to it, Malynera is considered a threat to the US air defense. Last week their radars spotted an unidentified object which trespassed US border at supersonic speed, dodged all missiles and disappeared in Los Angeles. Over some time it was back in the same manner, and they tracked it down to Malynera."

"Hunya," Patalliro shuffled a toe on the floor and looked aside. "But that was not any threat."

"What it was, then?" Bancoran groaned rubbing his temples.

"Plasma X bought some rare embroidery stuff extra cheap in a TV shop and opted for self-delivery. From Los Angeles, as you may guess. He was there and back in an hour… Wait! I did present my robots to public during the Phantom hunt in my castle. CIA was at the presentation too, why did they wait till now to protest, then?"

"I agree, it stinks".

"Where? Where?" Patalliro span around himself several times sniffing air and was stopped by a mighty smash on the head. Bancoran hissed and clutched his hand.

"Hold still for a second, right? I'm thinking… Yes, the Phantom. When we were capturing the Phantom in Malynera, who was the little pink-haired girl beside your robot gang?"

"A, it's Purara, their daughter. But why do you ask? You're into pretty guys."

"Yes, and Hewitt is into little pretty girls."

Patalliro jumped on the spot.

"No! Don't even think of! I won't let you trade Purara's virginity for some useless information!"

"As you wish. All I need is her photo. Or two, one portrait and one full-height. Or three, including a swimsuit. The case stinks, I feel like I'd need more levers."

And Bancoran went to his table, fished out a bottle of whiskey and took a huge gulp.

Patalliro eyed him with doubt.

"If you continue drinking at the same rate you'd need more livers. O-oka-ay… I return to my embassy and get you the pictures. But don't you dare to do anything indecent with them!"


	9. Chapter 8-2

Bancoran stared at the fax machine as it was swallowing and returning a sheet of paper. Patalliro stared at the major. A pretty girl from a photo on the paper stared into the ceiling. Then all three stared at the phone. And it rang, indeed. Bancoran snatched the receiver.

"Hello again… Sure, how do you like it?.. Do you want the original?.. No, I mean original copy of the photo, not the girl, you cannot afford that… Then please find out the reasons of Malynera commotion behind the official curtain, will you?.. The sound here? Don't mind, a drill is working one floor higher. Reconstruction works… Okay, I'll be waiting, then."

He put down the receiver and glared at Patalliro, who stopped running around for a second. For one second only.

"I cannot do anything about it!" he complained seeing the agent drawing the gun again. "It's a knee tic. Or nervous jerk. Or the other way around? Hey, what are you doing? Why, right here? And what if someone comes im-m-m…"

But it was too late. In twenty minutes the king of Malynera was securely wrapped in ropes, his mouth scotched, and suspended head down on a curtain holder. Bancoran was gasping for air and wiping sweat off his brow. In good old times he'd cope with the same task in five minutes without losing breath.

The phone rang again. The major listened to the speaker, hmming and echoing, then ended the talk and turned to the cocooned royalty.

"Another bad news. Satellites of the CIA Directorate of Science and Technology detected an alpha, beta and gamma radiation source in Malynera, somewhere in your castle. The directorate suspects you're developing nuclear weapons and takes preventive measures – as they understand it."

He turned scotch off the king's mouth, only to hear another 'hunya'.

"I suspect I know what it means," Bancoran noted icily.

"Coffee machine," they said in chorus.

"No, no," Patalliro whined. "I'm not going to sacrifice the best coffee in the world just because of some paranoiacs."

"Personally I don't care, but then you'll need to say farewell to your cozy little island."

"Nope." Human computer flashed and beeped once again. "I have a better idea. I'll move my Super Coffee Upgrading Machine – hmm, should I call it SCUM then? – to my embassy in London. May the US shift all questions to GB then. And I'll have a reason to visit your country more often."

Bancoran groaned, returned the scotch in place, checked the ropes, and took the next photo to the fax. On the sheet, he wrote with a marker, "Any other versions? ? Plz! Life or death issue!"

In silence the major lit two cigarettes at once and paced to and fro. At last he found a place from which his cigarette smoke was carried by draught right to Patalliro, and dragged a chair there. The boy sneezed, fidgeted, mumbled something.

"I hope so", Bancoran noted.

In an hour the phone rang at last. Bancoran was at the receiver in a split second.

"Hello? Yes, its me. What are the news? … Hmm… Really? What?! Are they crazy or stupid? Or both? Thanks a lot! Yes, I'll send it today by express mail."

By the end of the talk Patalliro managed to chew the scotch off.

"Bancoran, I didn't mean the outcome of our affairs, I meant it's not wholesome to breathe with smoke!"

"That's precisely what I've meant," the agent retorted. "By the way, if you are interested. CIA Directorate of Intelligence was analyzing scientific works as usually, and.. It's absurd! They came across a research by British researchers stating that diamond pipes are always accompanied by oil fields."

"Pipes in the fields? Are diamonds pumping oil through pipes?"

"Stop kidding!" Bancoran snarled. "Your country is at stake, not mine. Idiot. I am not an expert in geology, but even I know that ninety nine percent of articles from so-called British researchers are completely useless."

Patalliro scratched his nape. With tongue.

"Then, who is idiot? Me or some Brit?"

The agent lit two more cigarettes.

"Whatever. The question is, what can you do to stop it? I recommend you to publish some articles refuting this thesis, or about absence of oil in Malynera."

"O, then I can use paper written by my grandfather. He did some oil exploration, it was fashionable in his time."

"And?"

"And found it!"

Bancoran coughed and nearly fell off the chair.

"But you said yesterday that Malynera didn't have oil!"

"Yep", the king giggled. But seeing a gun pointed at him he hurried to provide further explanations. "Granddad did find oil, and wanted to produce it, but being a genius, as everyone in our family, he decided to go even further. He invented a chemical reagent which would transform oil into unleaded gasoline. But he mixed up some components, and the whole oil field turned into raspberry jelly."

Damn Americans, Bancoran thought in exasperation. Why did they bother with aircraft carriers, threats and other window dressing. Why didn't they just drop a dozen of nuclear bombs on and save the world from this pestilence…

"Whatever," he groaned. "Just make it widely known."

"My dad did that," Patalliro said spitting out a piece of rope he gnawed off. "But no one believed him."

"Release it once more, in several journals, and let's hope one absurdity annihilates another."

"I will – if you let me down, of course. You know it is hard to send anything to editors while hanging here. But then, if I stay like that I can take a nice penname like Batman or Human Chrysalis. What do you think?.. No! Put down the gun, pretty please! What are you doing? No –"

Bang! Thump.

No longer caring of damage, Bancoran had shot the cocoon with the dumbstruck king off the curtain rod. It took five blessed quiet seconds for Patalliro to realize he was still alive. With some wriggling the boy got out of ropes but did not go away. Not so easily.

"What else?" Bancoran sighed.

"Well", Patalliro seemed shy for a moment. "We have one more photo left. Don't want to waste it. And I'll have to tell Purara what the producer thinks of it."

"What producer?" the major felt his brain turning into raspberry jelly.

"From Hollywood, of course. I made her agree to sit for the photos by saying it's for a movie producer. She's in the period when all girls want to be actresses."

Bancoran sighed and smoothed his hair.

"Anyway. Let's get the most out of it."

He took the last photo and drew something similar to it on a clean sheet of paper and added and inscription, "Want picture in a swimsuit? Find out what's on outside of CIA". And then the phone rang.

The major looked at the device with awe, took the receiver, listened… and threw it back.

"Damn, financial department demands to bring report. Don't touch anything, or you'll be a new target in the shooting range."

And he hurried out of the office. Patalliro shrugged and pushed the last called number button of the fax machine.

When Bancoran returned with a pile of spray-cans, the king of Malynera was pacing in rounds with the most proud air, that is, with nose aimed at the ceiling.

"Yo Bancoran! Did you bring me some coffee and donuts? I've done all your work already. You're neglecting your duties."

"What... do you mean?" The agent asked as calmly as possible.

"I've sent your masterpiece of drawing and even talked to that guy Hewitt. He's so much more competent than you, really."

"How so?" The agent drew his gun slowly and emotionally, but Patalliro was too busy with being smug and did not pay attention.

"First, it took him just five minutes to find out that Malynera operation was initiated by the US Department of Treasury because I… what was the wording? refused to buy their treasury bonds. Now I remember that some shady guys did come and offered some bonds, but I said I was not interested in bondage and domination. So it was not hentai manga?"

"Not quite. Or was, but in economics setting. And what is the second point?"

"Secondly, Hewitt was so kind and charmed by my masterpiece of robotics that he offered to eliminate all evidence against Malynera in return for a chance to take Purara to Disneyland. Well, I should ask her not to kill him if he tries to molest her – in that case I can blackmail him for seduction of minors," the king finished with evil giggle.

On the one hand, Bancoran did not wish such ill fate to his friend, but on the other side, he could not miss a chance to shift Patalliro's annoying attention to anyone else. To hasten that blissful moment, the MI6 agent shoved the boy towards the door.

"Ba-an!"

"What the?.." Bancoran nearly dropped the phone receiver. "What is on, Patalliro? I thought we solved all your problems last week."

"You ask me what's on!?" the king of Malynera screeched at the other end of line. "And who has passed that weasel Hewitt to me?"

"Er… Not so fast please. I did not pass anyone off, it was you who asked for contacts within the CIA. And why 'weasel'?"

"That intrigant!" The receiver was nearly spitting with indignation. "He was after Purara since Phantom hunt already! And it was him who slipped all compromising hints to CIA and other agencies to start actions against Malynera and get hold of my dear metal girl!"

"But how did you find it out? Did he tell it himself?"

"Like hell. But in Disneyland, they've got to a divination tent with Purara, and the visionary was my friend Zachary, a real thing, not some fraud. He saw through the whole affair and warned Purara secretly."

"And she?"

"And she waited till they rode a ferris wheel, and on top she kicked him out of cabin."

"Oh… He did not deserve it, really", Bancoran muttered.

"She thought the same so she flew and caught him near ground to explain what was that for. And you know what? A famous movie director saw her at that moment and invited her to a superhero series!"

"Then, what is your problem?" Now it was Bancoran's turn to protest. "US ships left the waters of Malynera – note that Hewitt was honest with you in this respect. Purara got on screen. What else do you need?"

"Hunya", the receiver meowed. "Also, Purara realized that I lied to her about a producer at first. And… Well, now I am on the rooftop of Bank of America in Los Angeles. Not a single soul has noticed me in two days, I am freezing at night and get sun burnt at day, I eat pigeons and call you by connecting direct to a phone cable. Get me off here pretty please!"

Bancoran imagined the picture and could not restrain a smile.

"Why don't you call your robots or Black Onions? I'm useless, remember? Besides, it's quite a way between me and Los Angeles."

"I did call them. But they all betrayed me! They told I was mean with Purara. Plasma X even promised to spank me more if I return! You are my last hope, Ban!"

"First, stop calling me 'Ban', it is reserved for Maraich alone, Secondly, I agree with your subordinates. You are mean. But don't give up, a hurricane season is coming soon, and you'll be blown off the roof in a natural way. And if you don't eat too much pigeons you may be even wind-borne right to Malynera. Good luck!"

With a feeling of utter satisfaction Bancoran put down the receiver and pulled the phone cord out of socket.


	10. Chapter 9

"Ba-an?"

"What?" MI6 major Bancoran asked and drank the last breakfast glass of wine in one gulp.

"Here's morning mail!" Maraich came to dining room with a bunch of mottled envelopes. His voice was annoyingly cheerful. Bancoran did not understand how anyone could be so lively at 8 a.m. He was not a morning person, and only duty and skill and will of iron could raise him so early. He yawned and rose from the table.

"Don't you see, I am in a hurry. Look through it yourself and throw spam out. Bye!" And off he was, to the bleak London morning.

Maraich waved with the envelope batch to the closed door and went to the sofa, to play solitaire of bills and advertising letters. Ban's empty plates would wait a minute, for it would not take longer to separate the sheep from the goats. TV subscription fee to the right, an ad to the left, an ad catalogue, ad booklet, gas bill, ad flier, spam, spam, spam… What was that? A solid envelope with airmail stamp and fancy coat-of-arms stuck out of cheap spam paper. Return address was written in illegible ornate font. The redhead hated hand-written characters because he was not good at reading them. "..a..i..o Ma.." What was that supposed to mean? Wait, Malynera?!

Maraich winced. In disgust he took the letter with two fingers and carried to pantry to check it with GM counter, metal detector and X-ray camera. The results turned blank. A mere unsuspicious sheet of paper was locked inside. The more suspicious it was. Inner shit gauge of a former killer screamed to get the letter out of house and burn it at dump site. Curiosity was whispering in much quieter voice, but still it was irresistible. Yes, the letter was addressed to Bancoran, but they were a family, right? And the major allowed… no, even asked Maraich to deal with mail, right?

Maraich shuddered once more and opened the envelope with a nail.

"Hello Ban!

It's a real tragedy. Futures contracts on diamonds sank, international not-so-lawful syndicates lost interest in me, I'm not targeted by assassins every other day and don't see you as often as I want. And my research work stagnates: nothing explodes, mutates or happens. I'm bored out of scull. See these spots? It's my brain dripping on paper. Joking. I cried. Joking again. I'm too embarrassed to tell what it is. : }

No, there is one event at least! It starts with B. Ta-dam! I have birthday on Sunday! I'll be 16. Like, totally, youth is gone by. Isn't it sad. But, there are good points too! Before, eighteen was the age of majority in Malynera, but I shifted it to 16, so I'm eligible now. Also, I legalized same-sex marriages in my kingdom. From my jumps to the future I know it will be fashionable in 30-40 years, and I want my regime to be progressive. Got it? Guess you'll be back to Malynera with a proposition in no time! Or maybe you'd drop to Switzerland first? My mom is still there. She'd be delighted to see you and would definitely agree to give you her motherly blessing. She'd hope that as a son I'd let her have you once in a while. But I wouldn't! Just kidding, I'm not that greedy, of course I'll share. BTW, I'll open you a secret. My tamanegi troops aren't really as ugly as they look. They are all pretty boys, just as you like. Maybe I'll let you into their quarters once in a while if you behave well. But I should think of some sun-screens of sorts to protect my elite troops from your charms while they are on duty.

I guess, Bancoran-kun, I'm the only bishounen on earth who loves you naturally and not because of your 'charms'. You've never used it on me. I am very grateful to you for that, I take it as a sign of respect, though sometimes I expect to suspect in that aspect... Sorry for my hiccups.

Poor Maraich! You screwed him in so many ways – you hypnotized him, raped, made betray his comrades... Poor Bancoran! Does Maraich love you, or is he just under effect of your spell? Under drugs, so to say. Maybe you're so bitter about drug dealers because they are your rivals? Just joking, I know about Damien Knight... You may say that he loved you too, but in my viewpoint, for him it was just a minor school affair with a pretty roommate. You'd ask why I know it? Hehe, I know everything about you, all you dirty secrets and weaknesses. But I like you nevertheless. See I'm the best for you!

If you worry about your career I can offer you a position of Police Chief. The old stinker should retire already, he's grown immune to my brilliant (or should I say diamond?) sense of humor.

Well, you are not young either, so maybe it's your last chance to marry a young pretty boy. And I'm even prettier than the Radish guy! : }

See ya!

With EverOverLasting Love,

Napoleon VIII, just joking

The Sun King, joking again

Fuhrer of Malynera, you got it

Your Pataliro 8th."

The letter slipped out from Maraich's hands and slid swiftly under the sofa, like a cockroach.

Bancoran returned home late. From under his umbrella he saw that windows of his apartment were dark, and strange sad feeling flickered past him like a night bird. But maybe Maraich was sleeping? It should be hard to stay awake all day and evening long when you get up early to cook every day.

Thus fending sad thoughts off the major went up and opened the door. Light flooded the room at a switch click and glittered off envelopes sprayed all over sofa and carpet. Morning plates and cup still stood on the table in oil and coffee stains. Draught tried to lift the papers but lay down in exasperation when Bancoran closed the door.

But the red-haired young man standing at the window did not even turn his head to the sound. He was leaning with his forehead on the glass pane, wide eyes fixed at some invisible, incomprehensible point outside.

"Maraich? What's happened?" the agent cried and wanted to rush to the dear figure, to hug him, to shake off that cold stillness. But instead, he stood just as still.

"Bancoran?" the voice came dull, it was hardly heard behind the rain rustle.

"Yes, my dear?" the major forced out an equally weak sound.

The young man turned aside, still avoiding to look at him, and dusk lingered in his eyes.

"Do I really love you?"


End file.
